


Barely Even Friends

by SpicyReyes



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Lots of history references bc I'm a nerd, M/M, Male!Belle, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: An inventor's child gives their freedom for their father's life. Except this time, there are no princesses or heroines. There is a young boy with nothing to lose and a cursed man with nothing to gain.





	Barely Even Friends

**Author's Note:**

> listen I just really love historical homosexuality as a gay male history nerd so like. 18th century France with mlm? Pls god

_Once upon a time, in the hidden heart of France, a handsome young prince lived in a beautiful castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was selfish and unkind. He taxed the village to fill his castle with the most beautiful objects, and his parties with the most beautiful people. Then one night, an unexpected intruder arrived at the castle, seeking shelter from the bitter storm. As a gift, she offered the prince a single rose. Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince turned the woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. When he dismissed her again, the old woman's outer appearance melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress. The prince begged for forgiveness, but it was too late. For she had seen that there was no love in his heart. As punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there. As days bled into years, the prince and his servants were forgotten by the world, for the enchantress had erased all memory of them from the minds of the people they loved. But the rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose. If he could learn to love another and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a beast?_

  


The tiny French community of Villeneuve was, in the kindest terms possible, quite dull.

Every person in it seemed to run on a schedule, performing the same tasks day to day without deviation or delay. It reached the point that when Beau stepped into the streets, he knew exactly where to step and what path to take to dodge the crowds and weave through the street traffic.

He would duck slightly to step under a beam that fell off the cobbler’s store about once a week, but never seemed to get fixed. He would take a wide step to the left to avoid bumping into the baker, because he’d accidentally knocked off one of his loaves before and been quite upset with himself for a while - even if he had paid for it and fed it to some of the animals around the town. He’d sweep through in an uninterrupted rhythm, dropping coins in hands and gathering his usual necessities.

Through it all, without fail, he would steadfastly ignore the looks he was given by the general populace.

They thought him odd, Beau knew. He showed no difference to status or gender, and acted utterly indifferent to the rules of propriety. He was often gawked at when caught in the town center doing laundry among the women, or tending his garden, or caring for children who were nearby and unattended.

People whispered about him, calling him odd and peculiar and much, much nastier words he dared not repeat. Still, he did his best to disregard them, and carried on about his own business.

Which led him to his favorite place in the city: the Church, where the tiny library held the only storybooks to be found in the area.

“Ah,” Pére Robert greeted him, as he stepped in. “If it isn’t our resident bookworm. Come back from your journey?”

Beau smiled, holding up his borrowed book. “Northern Italy was quite nice. Have you any new places to visit?”

“Afraid not,” Pére returned. “But you’re still welcome to read any old ones again.”

Beau shifted, eyeing the shelf with trepidation. He had a favorite book, one he reached for often, but…

“You want the romance again, don’t you?” the pastor asked, giving a kind smile. “Go ahead. It isn’t as though anyone here will care much _what_ book you have, simply that you have one.”

Beau resisted the urge to hug the man, and instead took the book from the shelf with enthusiasm. He _loved_ that particular story: a complicated romance, with a heroine who met her prince when he was disguised, and spent the rest of the book warring between two loves who were, in reality, the same man. It was the type of story he could never admit to reading in this town, lest he become even _more_ of an outcast, yet he couldn’t help himself from falling in love with it each time he opened it.

Once again armed with reading material to fill his day, Beau began the trek back to his cottage - only to be stopped along the way with a shout of his name.

Beau slid his eyes closed, letting out a long breath. Of course. _Gaston._

“Beau!” Gaston called again as he turned around, and smiled his bright and absolutely _fake_ smile when they were face to face.

“Hello, Gaston,” Beau returned. “Did you need something?”

“I spotted you in the distance and figured I would check up,” the man said, all faux politeness. “How has your business been?”

“My _father’s_ business is well,” Beau said, barely restraining the anger inside him. Gaston seemed to be of the opinion that Beau needed to be the one commanding all of the work his father took on, as a ‘proper man’ or some similar nonsense, and he _hated_ it. Beau loved to invent, yes, but he had no desire to do it professionally. He likely _would,_ but he wanted to take all the time he could to learn things and read and dream of adventures. He clung to his childish notions of freedom with an iron grip, and _curse_ Gaston for trying to make him feel bad about it.

Gaston dropped his eyes down to Beau’s book, still clutched in his hands, and gave a tight smile. “Ah, lovely book.”

Beau blinked, before narrowing his eyes, suspicious. “You’ve read it?”

“Um, not that one, specifically,” Gaston covered. “But...books. In general.”

 _Sure._ Beau let out a breath. “Did you need something from me, Gaston?” he repeated, insistent.

“I was wondering if you had considered my offer,” the man finally said. “I think it would be quite beneficial-...”

“I am not interested,” Beau told him. The ‘offer’ in question was a deal Gaston had attempted to make: Beau would design, if not outright _build_ , him a top-of-the-line firearm, and in exchange he’d be _generously_ granted a place in the former soldier’s hunting party. Right alongside LeFou, the lackey he consistently abused, and the occasional brain-dead drunkard who happened to know how to pull a trigger.

 _No thank you,_ Beau thought. He wouldn’t want to be alone with that group in _any_ situation, let alone watching them sadistically take out helpless creatures for sport.

Gaston’s smile faltered for the briefest moment. “Ah, you wound me, Beau. If you would only think on it further…”

“You asked me nearly half a year ago, Gaston,” Beau reminded him. “I’ve thought on it plenty. I’m not a hunter, nor a smith, and I’ve no intention to be. Should you want a music box or jewelry case, I could assist you, but I will not be making any weaponry today, nor any other time.” He squared his shoulders, clutching his book tighter to his chest. “Good day, Gaston.”

He then walked quickly away, returning to his own home.

Hopefully his father would have something to say that could ease the furious tension in his chest.

  
  


Beau stepped into his home to hear his father humming, the sound intermixed with the clinking of metal as he worked on his newest design.

Upon his approach, Beau noticed that his father had fallen back to an old pattern: making a music box that heavily featured his own feelings. While some of these types of creations were subtle - careful flower etchings on box lids or other such hints - this one was particularly blatant, featuring a female figure holding a baby and a painter working on their portrait. While the intricate moving parts were fascinating and the details were beautiful, Beau couldn’t help but mourn. His father only got this deep into his works when his mind was heavy.

That did, however, give Beau an opportunity. When distracted like he was, Maurice was rather quick to answer questions, regardless of their type.

Beau passed over a tool before Maurice even had the chance to ask for it, leading to a light _tsk’_ ing from the man as he realized he’d walked directly into a problem that his own son was able to see coming first.

“Papa,” Beau began, speaking lightly, so as not to alert his father to his scheming. “Am I...odd?”

“Odd?” Maurice repeated, shifting a stray gear. “My son, odd? Where would you get such an idea?”

Had the man been paying closer attention, Beau would have shot him a flat look. Instead, he simply sighed. “It’s a small village, and I can hear the people talk.”

“Who talks?” Maurice demanded, looking up with outrage. “I find nothing objectionable about you at all. You’re quite like your mother, actually.”

Beau smiled. He’d originally just wanted an opinion, but...well. Plans could change. “Would you tell me something new about her? You always avoid it.”

Maurice hummed, eyeing the tiny figurine of the woman in the music box. “...She was fearless,” he eventually said, before closing the box. “People would talk about her and scorn her and shun her, up until they all found themselves imitating her.”

Beau laughed, trying to picture the young men of the town heading about with their noses buried in romances. Somehow, he doubted he’d have his mother’s luck, there. Changing the subject, he waved to the music box. “Is that the last of this trip’s particulars?”

“Yes, it is,” Maurice confirmed. “I’m off now to take them for sale. Should I bring you anything?”

“A rose,” Beau answered immediately. “Like the ones you always paint.”

Maurice huffed out a laugh of his own. “You ask for that _every_ year.”   
“And you always bring it,” Beau returned. “I will stop asking when you stop complying.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Maurice said, before patting his son once on the head from atop his cart. “Very well. One rose, delivered in the night for you to hide away like the others. I don’t see why you won’t simply plant them.”

“The rarity adds to their charm,” Beau told him, which was only part of the truth. The rest was that having a fancy for flowers would be looked upon oddly, lest he was picking a bouquet for a woman - something he did _not_ intend to do. The women in the town held the same amount of appeal as everything else: null.

Maurice laughed yet again, and bid him farewell, before heading off with Phillipe to town to make his sales.

Beau watched him go with a soft smile. Even if he felt stifled in the town, he would never say a word against it as long as his father lived. Anything that could keep the man safe and happy would be in his favor for all time.

  


Beau, as a rule, did not go anywhere near the tavern in town. Thus, it became the perfect sulking place for Gaston.

“My hunting party is famed throughout France,” Gaston told LeFou. “We are renowned for our prowess and skill, and I am praised for the sheer audacity of my adventures, and what does Beau say? _I’m not interested._ He claimed he had no intention of ever making a weapon.” He turned to his companion. “Imagine it, LeFou. A young man, skilled in craftsmanship, preferring to make music boxes and vanities over _weaponry._ He’s the oddest of sorts.”

“I suppose you’ll have to find your perfect rifle elsewhere,” LeFou offered.

“What?” Gaston responded. “No, no, of course not. Beau is exceptionally talented in innovation. If I want a gun beyond the mark of any other, it _must_ be from him. Besides, it has become a challenge! Who am I to turn such a thing down?” He stood, waving LeFou forward. “Come, let us find a new approach. I _must_ convince him to grant me this, as a favor if nothing more. Even if it means _befriending_ the odd child.”

  
  


Beau hated laundry.

It wasn’t entirely odd, as most men who were forced to do it also hated it, but Beau hated it for a deeper reason than “it’s women’s work.” He hated it because it took _hours,_ and that meant hours of kneeling by the water in the village center, being subject to the curious gazes and malicious whispers of strangers.

So, in a fit of determined passion, he decided that he wasn’t to bother any longer. Instead, he spent his afternoon creating a system that could do it _for_ him.

The next day, he walked a horse - not Phillipe, unfortunately, but a good and strong horse borrowed from a local stable - to the well and set up his device.

On the surface, the design was simple: as the horse walked in a circle, encouraged by treats, he’d pull the barrel rigged up to his saddle. The barrel would rotate, spinning water and laundry and sawdust and soap all in a swirl, forcing it to clean itself. The sawdust would act as a scrubber in place of hands and a washboard, the soap would get the cloth cleaner than simply water, and the motion would keep everything moving long enough for the dirt to truly fall free. The mechanics of getting it all to work were a bit complex, but nothing compared to the detail work Beau was used to in his father’s inventions.

Content with his own inventiveness, he curled up against one of the columns surrounding the well, and began to read.

  


“What are you doing?”

Beau startled, looking over to the side, to see a young girl watching him curiously.

Smiling, he waved to the barrel. “Laundry.” At her skeptical look, he waved her closer. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

She cautiously approached, and he pointed to his machine, explaining in the simplest way he could manage how he’d created a system to do his washing for him.

“Don’t you have a wife for that?” the girl asked, and Beau laughed.   
“Heavens, no. I’m young enough I’ve yet to be forced, thankfully.” He held up his book. “I’m content with my work and my readings.”

The girl looked to the book, before hesitantly setting a finger against the cover, where one of the words of the title was etching into the leather. “I can’t read,” she told him. “What does this say?”

“I could tell you,” Beau said, slowly, an idea coming to him. “Or...I could teach you to read it yourself, should you wish?”

The girl’s eyes lit up, and Beau knew he’d made a good choice.

  


Beau fetched one of the simple children’s books from the only shop that sold supplies for the academy boys, and brought it out to the well, beginning to teach the girl with it. He learned her name was _Adeline,_ which he thought was lovely. She was also rather clever, catching onto the patterns in words quickly.

Soon, she was reading out sentences of the book to him, slowly and hesitantly, beaming when he praised her.

Their joy, however, was cut short abruptly, when the schoolteacher from the academy appeared.

“Teaching a young _girl_ to read?” the man demanded. “Women have no place among the educated.”

Beau straightened, frowning. “The majority of the town is illiterate, regardless of gender,” Beau pointed out. “What’s the harm in cutting that back?”

The teacher scowled at him. “You have always been a stubborn sort,” he declared. “Something must be done about you.”

Within moments, the man had signalled some others to help him, and they were ripping his barrel from his horse-machine, dumping the laundry out onto the dirt.

Beau sucked in a breath sharply, because those weren’t just _his_ clothes, they were the girl’s as well, and she did not need to have to wash them twice because of him. He went for the pile, separating his clothes out and back into the barrel for transport, and collecting the girl’s into a basket. The crowd dispersed, pleased with their revenge, and Beau quietly returned to the well, beginning to hand-wash the girl’s clothes.

“You are washing mine?” Adeline asked, appearing beside him, looking astonished.

“Yes?” Beau returned. “It’s my fault they dumped them out. I can do mine later, if I need, as my father won’t be home for a few days and most are his, but you don’t need to have to wash yours twice.”

Adeline blinked, and then headed to the side, digging in the barrel and pulling out some of his wet clothes, before joining him at his side. “I will wash yours, since you don’t have anyone to do it for you. We’ll help each other, like some of the old ladies do.”

“Alright, then,” Beau agreed. “Perhaps this time, helping will go a bit better.”

  
  


“Beau,” Gaston called, as the man was headed back home with his clean laundry. “I heard about that nastiness at the market. My I offer a word of advice?”

“I'd rather you didn't,” Beau murmured, but was predictably ignored.

“The changes you're trying to bring are too radical. No one will accept them.”

“I was teaching a _child_ to _read,”_ Beau insisted, spinning around to face the larger man. “What's wrong with that?”

“You're a curious man,” Gaston observed. “You seem to love children but show no interest in having your own.”

Beau sniffed. “It's a small village. I've met every woman here, and I can safely say I do not care for any of them that way. And I certainly don't want to add to the crowd of ignorant civilians if I can avoid it.” He narrowed his eyes. “Which includes, by the way, giving you a weapon to parade around and woo yourself a bride as brutish and superficial as you. Good _day,_ Gaston.”

He headed inside his house, slamming the door behind him and being sure to bar it before he began tending to his laundry.

Honestly. Some people.

  
  


“He refused,” Gaston griped to LeFou later, in the tavern again. “Straight out, to my face, as though he were above me. Called me _brutish._ Am I brutish, LeFou?”

“A tad,” LeFou confirmed. “In the best of ways, of course.”

Gaston sighed. “There are prize kills in the French woods that have gone unclaimed for years because our weaponry is too lacking. Beau could fix that, and help me in the process, but he refuses. Why?”

“Gaston,” LeFou drawled. “Stop beating yourself up about it. You're the best hunter in the world, fancy gun or no, and you'll be fine even if he doesn't come around.”

LeFou turned around, tossing a few coins to the band. “Boys, help me out. Play something fun.”

The band obligingly picked up an upbeat tune, and LeFou returned to Gaston’s side to give a pep talk for the ages.

  
  


Meanwhile, in the low light of the early evening, Beau looked up from the garden to see Philippe riding up, bare-backed and looking shaken.

“Oh no,” he murmured to himself, standing quickly, shaking the dirt off his light blue waistcoat. “Philippe, what happened? Where is my father?”

Philippe tossed his head, obviously distressed, and Beau began stroking his mane comfortingly. The second the mare was under control, Beau guided him forward, heading to the stable to fetch riding gear. “Take me to him.”

  


Beau looked up at the castle before him, eyes wide as he took in the high walls and crumbling architecture. It looked as though it had been there for hundreds of years, and yet he'd never seen it.

Steeling himself, he dismounted Philippe, leaving the horse tense and waiting in the front lawn, and headed inside.

“Hello?” He called. His voice echoed against the walls, and he grimaced. That sounded foreboding.

“Another man?” A quiet voice in the distance whispered, causing Beau to look up abruptly. “We have never had so many visitors.”

“Quiet!,” Another voice shot back. “He will see us!”

“Who’s there?” Beau called. “Who said that?”

He headed in the direction of the voices, only to pause in front of a lovely dark wood table, topped with elegantly designed metalworks. A clock, intricate in design, and a candelabra with the most precise etchings. He picked up the clock, turning it over in his hands, trying to get a sense of what mechanisms ran it. “Exquisite,” he murmured, before setting it back and turning his attention to the candle. He traced a finger lightly over the detail work, admiring the fine lines. Beau was better with carvings and small works than his father, with smaller hands and a better eye for detail, so the candle was easier for him to fully appreciate than the clock. It was fascinating, and Beau was half tempted to pocket it.

A crash sounding above, followed by a loud yell, made Beau snap back up straight, remembering his goal. He grabbed the candlestick and carted it with him, using it as light to guide his way up the twisting tower stairs.

At the top, he caught glimpse of a crumpled figure on the floor, and abandoned the candle on a table to run to him.

“Papa!” Beau cried, pressing himself to the bars of what appeared to be a sort prison cell. “What happened? Who put you in here?”

“Beau,” Maurice rasped. “You must go. This castle...it's _alive.”_ He choked off in a fit of coughs.

“You're sick,” Beau murmured, looking around. “I'm going to try and get you out. I'll see if I can find something to break the lock.”

Just then, a growl echoed through the tower, and Maurice flailed at his son. “Go! Leave me! He is going to be here any moment!”

“I'm not leaving without you!” Beau argued. “If I leave you here you'll _die.”_

“And we both will, should you stay!” Maurice returned. “I cannot bear to lose you like I did your mother.”

Before Beau could argue further, a thunderous noise sounded behind him, and he turned to see the outline of a massive creature in the shadows.

“You've come for the thief?” The creature rumbled.

“I've come for my father!” Beau retorted. “He is no thief!”

“He stole a rose from my garden,” the creature argued. “What is that, if not theft?”

“All this for a rose?” And the beast’s humorless laugh, he grit his teeth. “ _I_ asked for the rose. If that's what this is about, punish me.”

“Beau, no,” Maurice called, but Beau ignored him.

“You would take your father’s place?” The shadowed creature called, and then stepped forward, letting the light of the candle on the table reveal him at last. Beau inhaled sharply at the figure that was revealed: a monstrous, animalistic form, incomparable to any fairy tale monster or existing animal he knew. “You would be here for your lifetime.”

“Beau, please,” Maurice begged. “Leave me. My life will be short, especially as sick as I am. I will not suffer, but you would. Let me protect you as I could not protect your mother.”

Beau took a deep breath, his brain working quickly, an inventor’s wit turning over the situation to look for a place to start fixing it.

And then, he got it.

“Alright,” Beau agreed. “I will go.” He turned to the beast. “Would you permit me to say goodbye properly? Just a hug before I leave, if it's to be the last one.”

The creature stared him down with cold eyes, before growling again and pulling a lever on the wall, releasing the locks on the cage. “Once this door closes, it will _not_ open again.”

Beau did not hesitate, launching himself into the cell to hug his father. “Papa, I'm so sorry.”

“Shh, my boy, don't be,” Maurice soothed. “I'm not sad to give this for you. Protecting family is more important than anything.”

“I know,” Beau whispered. “And I will escape, I swear it.”

“What?”

In a smooth motion, he turned, pushing his father through the door and shutting the gate on himself.

The beast stared at them for a moment, before growling at Maurice. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Maurice looked to Beau, face haunted, before mouthing a promise to return and taking off down the stairs. Satisfied he was safe, Beau turned a defiant stare on the monster before him.

“You took his place,” the beast observed.

“He is my father,” Beau replied. “Perhaps that means nothing to a beast, but it means everything to me.”

The beast straightened, snarling in a way that reminded Beau of a starving wolf. “He is a fool. And so are you.”

With those as parting words, the beast stormed off, and Beau curled up in the corner of the cell to think.

He'd promised to escape. He needed to work out _how_.


End file.
